When I grow old and senescence weighs upon me,
Deepening the lines of past poetry into my skin,
I will be sitting in my rocking chair
With my basket of yarn placed before me,
Filled with strings of laughter
And twines of old tales and stories,
All wrapped neatly together to form my past.
I will knit one last poem, the poem of all poems,
The poem I could never fully complete before
Without a few hanging threads or extra yarn left
Since I still had more life to live,
And more threads to pick up where I left off.
Into this final poem I will weave the last fibres of my being,
My last strands of hope,
And all the colours my heart ever felt within.
Loose ends will be knit into place;
Scattered memories will be gathered up
And each will take its rightful place in the poem.
And finally, when my basket is empty,
I shall take my last breaths and give back to the poem
All the undeserving breaths it gave me in the past
As one final thank you, one final farewell.
Then, and only then, will the poem be endlessly,
Utterly, and forever complete.